


To John

by Thranduelflings



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: 1960's AU, The End, and Sherlock gets wankered by his friends grave, where John is dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 08:58:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1463389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thranduelflings/pseuds/Thranduelflings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock mourns the death of his greatest friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To John

**_ENGLAND, 1965_ **

_Mama, take this badge off of me_

_I can’t use it anymore,_

_It’s getting’ dark, too dark to see_

_I feel like I’m knockin’ on Heaven’s door_

Sherlock had stood in front of the lacquered wood of the coffin, his feet firmly together, his head hanging as he placed a ghostly, thin hand onto it, rubbing his thumb along one of the shiny knots. Yellow daffodils lay on the folded British flag next to the coffin, and a heavy feeling of guilt lay in Sherlock’s heart. He lifted his hand from the now finger printed wood and ran it through his curls, stepping back once more. He turned, walking towards the people that sat in a dreary and heartbroken crowd.

“Mary,” Sherlock had said in his baritone and now sad voice. Mary Watson, housewife, soon-to-be-mother, raised her head slowly and smiled sadly at the man.

“Private Holmes … So good to see you.”

It was Detective now, but Sherlock didn’t have it in him to correct her on it, so instead he sat and lay an arm around her low, stooped shoulders.

“John talked about you often in his letters … said you saved him a good many times.”

“Incorrect, Ms Watson, for he saved me a good many times. I wouldn’t have the ability to walk nor talk nor live if it weren’t for AD John Watson,” his voice was shaky, and a sob began to choke him.

**_You were best friends, yet you let him die, Sherlock._ **

He had shook his head sadly and a man walked up to the podium that his coffin had nestled into.

_Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door_  
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door  
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door  
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door

“We are here today in remembrance of John Watson; doctor, friend, husband … father,” said the man in a croaky voice, and Mary lowered her hand to her swollen stomach. “John Watson was a great man, a brave man, a strange man, and most of all, an important man to all of us here today. First of all, we’ll have John’s best friend, Sherlock, say a few words,” and with that he stood quickly and approached the podium, his hands trembling.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and those yet to be brought into the world,” he said with a sad smile, tilting his head towards Mary, “today we abut with each other to honour the memory of John Hamish Watson whom I believe to be the greatest, wisest, and most caring man I have ever had the wildly pleasure of knowing. John saved me many times, even though he may change it; he was the one who saved.

Not only did he pull me from the depths of myself, but he taught me that my own presence and horrid melancholic states were bad and he stopped me. He, of all people, stopped me.

On the battlefield one would look no further than John who sew those in need of sewing and slip in the occasional morphine just to help you through the night. The fateful day when he was so sadly taken from us was perhaps the only injury he knew not how to fix, and I sat with him in his lasts moments and we – and we …” the choke again …  Sherlock gulped and placed a hand over his breast pocket, a small lump beneath his palm, “and we shared what whiskey he had left in his flask and watched the grenades fly and light up over head.

He talked of the bombs and flares as fireworks in his delirium, and told me with his last breaths to tell Mary that he loves her,” a twist of her head and a cry, Sherlock frowned, talking again. “To the child she carries, your father was a hero, and proudly one of my closest confidants and best friends.

I want to apologise, now, to the man whom saved so many and yet was left to me; a man whose saved none.

“He slipped his hand into my palm and wiped the sweat and grime and blood from his moustache before beckoning me closer with the horrid temptation of a teary eyed goodbye – one that I would only half hear.

He thanked me for being with him and for trying my very best at what I did as I tried to stop the bleeding,” Sherlock took in another breath, a cold tear slipping down his hollow and thin face. “And I would like to say now to all of you that our beloved John Watson, who won’t be here with us physically, will forever live on in our tales and memories of him – that of which I am thankful,” Sherlock stepped back and wandered past the rows of seats whose straddlers were clad in black and out of the door, into the brisking evening air of London.

_Mama, put my guns in the ground_

_I can’t shoot them anymore_

_That long black is comin’ down_

_I feel like I’m knockin’ on Heaven’s door_

The sky was dark and the swirling mist of the black clouds held the threat of rain.

Sherlock didn’t care.

He began to walk down the street, the giant coat he had hung over his shoulders was now being pulled around him to stop the cold and his scarf was in his bony hand. The cemetery John would be taken to was near the church, so he’d just walk.

Ten minutes gone, and the first crack of thunder rang in the air so loudly that Sherlock found himself cringing. Fifteen minutes gone and the rain began to patter, after twenty; there was a small flood building.

The walk was slow, and Sherlock had found himself drenched. He needed to think, to lose himself, and by the time he had discovered himself in his own head it was near midnight. So, four hours later and he arrived at the cemetery, on his knees in front of the black marble tombstone with his face wet with rain and tears; what a night.

Yellow daffodils had been laid on the freshly dug dirt, and John’s empty and battered flask was next to it. Sherlock had smiled tearfully and picked it up with his shaking hands, wishing that he’d just lose himself again. He opened it, took a whiff, and sighed at the scent of the proof liquor that lay in it. He took a sip then poured some into the dirt.

Took a sip …

Poured it into the dirt …

And again and again until it was empty like him.

He rested his dreary face between his hands, threatening to let out a sob … and he did. For hours he sat and sat and cried and cried until he could finally do nothing else and his eyes were too dry to keep open. He shut them, humming softly.

 

_Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door_  
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door  
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door  
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door

He lay to sleep beside John’s grave, flask in hand, tear stained cheeks. His lips were pale, his breathing slow, and when the morning came round he awoke and looked at the tombstone with a grim expression.

“Goodbye, old friend.”


End file.
